


Protect Your Friends

by BananaStickers



Series: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs (Alternate Universe - The Payment) [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Payment, Brandon Dubinsky (Background), Bryan Rust (Background), Chris Kunitz (Background), Conor Sheary (Background), Justin Schultz (Background), Kris Letang (Background), M/M, Matt Cullen (Background), Matt Murray (Background), Mike Sullivan (Background)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:41:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: This can be read stand-alone regardless of series affiliation!  Marc-Andre Fleury has a gnawing feeling about what happened after the Pens / Blue Jackets series.  Now the Pens have beaten the Caps, and Matt Niskanen is in the cross-hairs.  How can he protect his friend?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to The Payment. Although it's not necessary to have read that, it may be a good idea to at least skim chapter 1, which discusses this universe (which is slightly different from our own, but not significantly). Essentially, the captain of the winning team within an NHL playoff series gets to choose a player from the losing team and do whatever they'd like to them for a few hours (within reason; nothing permanent). This is known as "The Payment". In fic #1, Sidney Crosby elects to teach Brandon Dubinsky a terrible lesson. This is referenced here and will set up the eventual Holtby/Fleury. Unlike Crosby/Dubinsky, it will be consensual.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so please give me a yell if you spot anything glaring.

"WOOOOOO!"

The scream could be heard loudly above the song "Walking On Sunshine" that accompanied every win. Fleury had only a moment to turn away from his stall, where he was setting down his mask, glove, and blocker, to just catch a quick glimpse of Justin Schultz bee-lining towards him before he was glomped onto, being hugged tightly from behind.

"Flower! What a fuckin' performance! You earned it!" Schultzy squeezed from where he had his arms around Fleury, hopping up and down in jubilation. Marc-Andre laughed, jumping alongside his defenseman. They'd won, holy shit, and had won in the enemy barn, with a shutout no less. A series nobody expected them to take.

"Game 7 MVP!" Bryan Rust hooted out, leading to a scoff from Chris Kunitz.

"Game 7? You mean _whole fuckin' playoffs MVP! _"__

__Soon, the room was drowned with chants of 'MVP'. Justin let him go and gave him an affectionate whack on the side of the head as Flower grinned, couldn't stop grinning, giving a little wave to the guys as the chants died down with Mike Sullivan's entrance. "Great fucking series boys, but it's not over yet!" Sullivan stopped in the center of the locker room with a smile, but Marc-Andre felt a squeeze at his wrist, turned away from the coach, who was now in full-on post-game speech mode._ _

__Matt Murray was there with a wink, dropping his hand from Fleury's wrist to give him a gentle punch on his chest protector, which Fleury returned affectionately. He knew what it felt, now, to lose your playoff spot to an unfortunate injury to the starter. It was basically opposite from last year. Fleury had been genuinely happy for Murray last year, but couldn't stop the flashes of self-doubt or wishing that it had been him. He had really tried to keep any issues or drama from arising and was pretty successful at it, if he did say so himself. Now Murray was in the same position and even at 22 years old was mature enough to be in the same place. There was nothing but support from the younger goaltender, and Marc-Andre fucking loved him for it._ _

__He realized Sullivan was still talking, turned towards his coach. "...halfway there, guys. Now the real fun begins. Do what you gotta do and let's get out of here."_ _

___Do what you gotta do._ A reference to The Payment. Fleury had nearly forgotten about it in his excitement at getting the shutout. He glanced over where Sid and Geno had their heads together, whispering furiously, obviously in a debate of some sort. And he heard a name being floated, even through the whoops and banter of the locker room._ _

__Niskanen._ _

__Fleury sat with a thud. That's exactly the name he did not want to hear. Call it goalie's intuition, but he had an off feeling, and a memory snapped unbidden to mind..._ _

__~~~~~_ _

__Marc-Andre was still in his pajama pants (they have little penguins on them, and Fleury loves them), making breakfast - bacon and eggs - when the phone rang. Pinkerton, the caller ID said, and Fleury frowned in confusion._ _

__Pinkerton was the code name for Sergei Bobrovsky, a fellow member of the Goalie Guild. Each goalie in the NHL was inducted into the Guild after 82 games played: one full regular season's worth of games. It was long enough to ensure the goaltender was going to stick around the league, and give enough time to think of a good nickname (a private, Guild-only code name). Sergei's nickname came from a couple of Canadian sportscasters deciding that Bobrovsky sounded like an old school cop name, and calling him "Officer Bobrovsky" thereafter. Pinkerton followed thereafter as the name of the most famous private eye agency in the world._ _

__The Goalie Guild was formed many years ago (Fleury wasn't even quite sure when) for protection. Goalies helping identify the loose cannons on the teams, the guys who would run and gun other goaltenders, and try to help drive them out of the league. And protecting each other as much as possible from The Payment, of course. The companionship was a nice side effect, too; socializing with others in this stressful position helped a lot._ _

__The Guild had their own text group, Snapchat, and other ways to talk with each other without actually needing to call, so it was very odd that Pinkerton was live and on the phone. Something serious had happened._ _

__Fleury picked up his phone, slid the green button. "Pinkerton?"_ _

__"Dolphin," Sergei greeted him, sounding grim. Fleury's own nickname, Dolphin, came from the flower Delphinium, which symbolized levity and fun. It was a fitting name._ _

__"This is a surprise. What's new?"_ _

__Bobrovsky cut right to the chase without pleasantries. "What you guys do to Dubinsky?"_ _

__"Dubinsky?" Fleury blinked, thought for a second. "Wait, why?" This _was_ unusual; The Payment was generally off-topic to anyone but teammates._ _

__"I know we not really supposed to talk about this, but he's real messed up after The Payment." Sergei paused, thinking. "When I saw him at exit interviews - I mean, something was not right. And then, we had team party, and I could tell, he's still out of it. He won't talk, you know, and that worries me most."_ _

__"Hmm." Sergei was right to be concerned. Usually, if a player won't admit to his team what his Payment was, it was generally heinous, not something they wished to share or think about. "Well, he was brought in and we all got to spank him with a wooden paddle. Just one each person. I mean, it's embarrassing, and I bet it hurt, but I find it hard to believe he would refuse to talk about that."_ _

__"Right, that doesn't seem -"_ _

__"Wait." Fleury frowned, thinking back to that evening. He remembered that he was fumbling for his car keys, one of the few remaining in the locker room, when he realized that Sidney and a few others were hanging around, trying not to make it seem deliberate. They were dressed, but hadn't seemed like they were going anywhere; and for Malkin, who was usually eager to get out the door and home, that was unusual. He'd been too amped from the game to really think too hard about it, but..._ _

__"His look," Fleury blurted out, and he could hear Sergei on the line making a note of confusion. "I remember now. I was heading out the door, and Sid and a couple of guys were left, just sort of chilling. I remember looking at Sid, and Sid was looking at Dubinsky, and he had this...I dunno, I mean...how to describe." He felt his accent thicken, his words stutter as he tried to grab the English words to say it. "It was the look he gives when he is most intense. But something else about it that I never seen before." He sighed. A goalie's intuition meant a lot, and a fellow Guild member knew it. "I've never seen Sid pull anything terrible from The Payment, but that look. His body language. It made me nervous. I don't know what happened after I left, but maybe...maybe."__

____

__He didn't need to finish his sentence. Bob grunted acknowledgement. "I will keep in mind. And we tell the Guild?"_  
_

__Ugh. Well, it had to be done. "Next meeting, Pinkerton."_ _

__"Okay. Just keep in mind, for next series."_ _

__"I will."_ _

__"Good luck, Dolphin."_ _

__Fleury put down the phone wordlessly, without saying goodbye. He looked down and groaned. He'd overcooked the eggs._ _

__~~~~~_ _

The memory came, and he rolled the original scene - with Dubinsky on the floor, and _that look_ on Crosby's face - rolled it around his brain, trying to gather more clues. Trying to figure out what to do.

__Suddenly, he realized the locker room had quieted, and Crosby was talking. " - similar to Dubinsky's punishment in round 1, I think. I know Nisky was part of our team for awhile, so this may be awkward for some guys, but - "_ _

__"Wait!" A voice cried out, halting Sid, and only when every face turned towards him did Fleury realize that it was his own. "Sorry, Sid. But I kind of - I mean, I really wanted this one. To, uh..." He trailed off and realized he actually had no clue what to ask for. Think. Think, Flower!_ _

__Matt Cullen came through in the clutch, hooting with delight. "You're finally going to make a move on Holtby?"_ _

__It was an open secret in the locker room that Fleury liked men, and one of them he was particularly fond of was his counterpart in Washington. As much as he did not want this conversation to be happening here in this locker room, **ever** , if it would save Nisky's ass, it had to be done. "Yeah. I just thought it might be my only chance."_ _

__The locker room exploded with excited chatter. To his relief, the boys seemed positive, most of them seeming excited that Fleury could be given this opportunity._ _

__"I think he deserves it," Kris Letang spoke up, loudly, above the din, where he was leaning against the wall in a suit, still dealing with his injuries. He crossed his arms, looked to the captain for a challenge. "We wouldn't even be in the position to decide if it weren't for his play."_ _

__Fleury watched Crosby, carefully. Although doing well to mask his emotions, Fleury could tell there was a war going on in his brain; the war between revenge and doing right by his teammate. He could tell when the war was won as a strained smile bloomed on Sid's face, and he nodded at Marc-Andre._ _

__"Alright, Flower. It's yours. You've earned it." The room cheered, and Crosby's voice pitched up to be heard. "BUT, I really need you to make it worth it. I'm not giving up the chance to teach Niskanen a lesson so you can hang out and do crosswords with Holtby for three hours. I know you; you won't demand it...but you at least need to ask. Persuasively. More than once, if necessary. Yeah?"_ _

__The expectation was explicit in Crosby's tone. That was fine. You didn't get to be the team's best prankster without a knack for lying, so Fleury just nodded and smiled easily. "Of course." He had no intention of actually fucking Holtby, or even asking to, as much as he wanted to. Maybe not crosswords, but no sex._ _

Sid just nodded, moving off to shower, and suddenly a tornado in the guise of Conor Sheary rushed over, grabbing Fleury in a headlock and giving him a furious noogie. "Flower's! Getting! LAIIIID!" he hollered as Fleury tried squirming out of his grasp. Fuck, Nisky better realize how much he _loved_ him, because this was going to get old quickly.

__Malkin was hovering close when Shears finally moved off, nodding at the goalie. "I go collect," he told Marc-Andre giddily, and before he even processed the words Evgeni was out the door._ _

__"Aren't you going to..." Flower sighed as he realized the Russian was long gone. "Shower," he finished. Normally, the team would be showered and dressed before collecting the other player. Fleury immediately knew that Malkin's real motive was chirping the hell out of Ovechkin, and if he had to wait for Holtby to shower - buying more time for shit-talking - all the better._ _

__But now he was stuck in limbo. He didn't want to be in the shower when Holtby was delivered, so he waited, stripping off his equipment and getting up to retrieve a Gatorade. He veered off towards the locker room doors. The media weren't allowed in the locker room after a series win, primarily due to The Payment; he'd throw them a bone and give a short interview or two. Anything to burn off this nervous energy._ _


	2. Chapter 2

"You ready?"

Marc-Andre was back sitting in his stall, staring at the floor, his reverie interrupted by Patric Hornqvist. He sourly noted the kind of smirk on Patric's face which could mean nothing good. "What did you do, Horny?"

"You'll see," Hornqvist replied, and Fleury groaned loudly.

"I swear, if you - "

He didn't have time to finish the sentence as the doors to the locker room swung open and in marched Geno, who looked exceptionally satisfied. Probably at Ovechkin's expense. Being nudged along in front of him was Braden Holtby, who had indeed been afforded the time to shower and get in his suit, one of his terrible hats perched atop his head. But, to Fleury's dismay, he had his hands tied in front of him with hockey lace, like some sort of prisoner of war. Worst still was the fact that there was a Gatorade towel shoved into his mouth and tied around the back of his neck. Fleury reflexively reached for his own towel and realized with a start that it was his, it was _his_ sweaty gross game towel in Holtby's mouth. Hornqvist had somehow stolen it and gotten it to Geno, probably when he was talking to the media. Despite these indignities, Braden walked tall, head held high. He caught sight of Fleury and his brows knit in a scowl.

Goddamnit.

"He is yours!" Malkin told him, nudging his foot into the back of Holtby's knees, forcing him to kneel in front of Fleury, who immediately yanked the towel out. Braden said nothing, just smacked his lips with a sneer, no doubt trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

"I - " Fleury wanted to say something, to apologize, to explain, but he couldn't, not with any number of nosy and interested teammates in the room. "I'm going to shower. DON'T put the towel back in his mouth. _Please_ ," he emphasized, shooting a look at Hornqvist, who just put his hands up defensively.

"Promise." But Flower didn't like that grin, it was back on Hornqvist's face, and he showered in nearly record time.

When he returned, Holtby was still on his knees in front of Fleury's stall, having been instructed to stay there by Hornqvist, no doubt. No towel was in place, but now he noted that Braden's mouth was taped shut with stick tape in a zig-zag pattern. In Sharpie, someone had written "FLEURY" across his mouth, parts of the marker on the tape, other parts on the flesh.

He pointedly looked over at Hornqvist, who was giggling in the corner with Kunitz. "You're an asshole, Horny." Fleury got dressed as quick as he possibly could, with Holtby still kneeling in front of him. He could feel the stare from the other goaltender as he was tying his shoes, and was really attempting not to think how fucking hot Braden looked on his knees, hands tied in front of him, mouth taped shut, Marc-Andre's name written on his lips. He wasn't normally really into that bondage stuff but _fuck_.

Once dressed, Flower began the process of pulling the tape from Holtby's mouth. Luckily, stick tape wasn't really all that sticky, so it probably didn't hurt. As he yanked the tape off, the word "FLEURY" distorted until it was unreadable. There was the bottom part of the F here, the top "v" of the Y there, all bits and pieces of the letters left on his face, the rest ripped off with the tape. Holtby scowled the whole time, eyebrows knit in anger. Soon, Fleury thought. Just let everyone else leave, and I'll explain it all.

Hornqvist swung close as he headed out towards the team bus, slapping Holtby hard enough on the back to double him over. "You like the name bit? I just wanted to remind him whose mouth it belonged to, tonight." Then he grabbed the hat from Holtby's head and popped it onto Fleury's, winking. Braden straightened back up and now he was tight-lipped, his eyes flashing the intense chocolate brown that Fleury saw during the toughest games. His long hair fell into his eyes now without the hat, but he didn't bother shaking them away. He wasn't just angry anymore, he was furious.

"Okay thanks, _goodbye_ Horny, goodbye guys," Marc-Andre said pointedly, watching his teammates leave one-by-one. Sid was the last out, and he just gave his goalie a small smile - still thinking of what could have been, Flower knew - and then he was gone too, left alone with the other goaltender. Fleury sagged down, relieved that they were finally alone, could finally explain.

"McCoy," Fleury started with a sigh, using Holtby's Goalie Guild nickname. His came from The X-Men's Beast, whose real name was Hank McCoy, a play on the media's "Holtbeast" moniker. "I'm so sorry. Get up, get off your knees. Come sit. Oh - shit, your hands." He pulled Holtby off his knees to sit next to him, fumbling with the knot in the hockey laces.

"What's this all about, Fleury?" Flower's eyes flicked up to McCoy's face, stony in its expression, eyes narrowed. The usage of his real last name vs his customary Goalie Guild nickname indicated seriousness.

"Oh. I..." he let that thought lapse for a long minute while he pulled at the knot, only continuing when the lace was on the ground and Holtby's hands were free. The second they were, he snatched his hat back, settling it on his head again. "I'm sorry. It's just - Sid was going to pick Nisky for The Payment."

"I'm not surprised. And?"

"And..." Well, Braden would find out at the next Goalie Guild meeting anyway, Pinkerton would make sure of that. "He chose Brandon Dubinsky in the first round. Pinkerton called and said Dubinsky was real fucked in the head afterwards. I don't have absolute proof, but I think it was something Sid did. I don't know what, but I do know that he wanted revenge on Nisky. If something fucked up Brandon Dubinsky - if it was serious enough that Pinkerton broke the code of silence..." He sighed. "Nisky's my friend. I could be way off. But I couldn't take the chance. So I asked for a favor, asked to pick The Payment."

"And you chose me."

"Yes." The unspoken question of 'why' was behind McCoy's statement, and Fleury didn't know what the hell to say. "I had to think of something. And, um, you, uhhh..."

"You like me, so it made sense as an excuse."

It was a bad time to take a sip of that Gatorade, as Fleury spluttered and coughed. Holtby's foul expression finally cleared, and he smirked, patting Flower on the back, who spluttered indignantly. "Wha - but - how? Who - was it Showcase?! I'll kill him!"

"It wasn't Showcase," Braden smiled, using the nickname for Carey Price, so named for The Price is Right's Showcase Showdown and the fact that, well, Showcase was a very Price-esque tag. "Well...let's just say he didn't tell me outright. He just confirmed suspicions, that's all."

Flower sighed, grumbling. "I'll still kill him."

"Good luck." Holtby was full-out grinning now, mood turned around from just a few minutes ago.

"Look, I don't intend to..."

"Sure, sure," Holtby interrupted, waving his hand. "I get it. You're not like that. You certainly had me worried there for a minute, though. Thought maybe I'd misjudged you. But no. It's a helluva thing you did for Nisky. A big favor that you had in your pocket, and you used it for your buddy." Braden fell silent, thoughtful for a moment. "What say you and me get a drink, maybe talk more about this whole Dubinsky thing?"

Fleury examined his face carefully for how he should proceed, now that he understood Holtby was aware of his feelings. He saw nothing but friendliness. "Where did you have in mind?"

"You'll see. We'll go in my car. But - let me scrub my face first, yeah?"


	3. Chapter 3

The elevator chimed softly as it stopped at the top floor. Fleury followed Holtby out, silently, his eyes wide. He knew Braden had expensive tastes, and they all made good money of course, but this place was something else in its opulence. In DC, no less, it must have cost a fortune.

Holtby paused in front of a door, letting out a sigh - was that in relief? - once he caught sight of a green light illuminating the hallway. He fumbled with his wallet, searching for a key card. 

"This is - yours?"

"Oh," McCoy paused for just a moment to smirk at Marc-Andre, before locating the key card and pressing it to the lock. "No way, I couldn't afford this. This is Leonsis'. He has it open and available to the team year-round. I was worried Ovi might be here, but we're good. That green light you saw means it's unoccupied." Holtby swung the door open, and Fleury was suitably impressed. This was definitely owner's wealth, not just player's riches. Braden shut the door and pressed a small button on a panel by the wall. "Now that light is red and everyone else's key card is temporarily deactivated, so nobody interrupts." He continued down the panel, dimming the lights which had flickered on automatically when they entered. In the new low light, the city gleamed bright out the windows.

"What's your poison?" he asked, moving comfortably through the room, tossing his hat onto a nearby chair, and stopping at an elegant bar. Fleury noted it was fully stocked with top shelf alcohol. Of course.

"Well, if you've got good scotch..."

Holtby nodded silently, grabbing the bottle, which Fleury noted was one of the best widely-available scotches on the market. He was sure that Ted kept those 10 grand bottles in his personal collection. Still, not too shabby. Braden passed over the glass, made himself a White Russian (heh, Fleury internally smirked, thought about making an Ovechkin joke, then thought better of it) and then gestured him to follow as he meandered towards the window and the view, sitting on a loveseat.

There was really nowhere else to sit in the vicinity, so Marc-Andre cautiously perched himself next to the other goalie, feeling a little too close to his space for the information that had been revealed earlier that night. They chatted aimlessly for a few moments, talking about the season, upcoming gear innovations, the Western conference playoffs. Safe topics. Braden fell silent for a moment after a long diatribe about the Predators' chances, then:

"Tell me more about Dubinsky."

So Flower relayed the whole story. The spanking, the aftermath, the queasy feeling that struck him. The conversation with Pinkerton. Everything. When he was done, McCoy smacked his lips, swirling the glass around his half-finished drink. "You think Sid has it in him to...? I mean, I played with him on Team Canada, but didn't really get a sense either way."

"Oof." Fleury delayed his answer by taking a long sip of scotch, feeling just a little buzzed already. "He's one of my best friends, so I wish I didn't have to say it, but yes. He's an awesome guy, one of the best guys I know. Really, he is. But sometimes...you can see, he just snaps. Something inside him goes berserk. And sometimes that leads to him taking over a game and dragging everyone to victory, but sometimes that leads to him chopping off Methot's finger." He took another sip, put the scotch down on the side table. "I couldn't sit here and say that Sid _didn't_ do something fucking awful to Dubinsky and be 100% sure about it. I saw that same berserk look in his eyes tonight when he was talking about The Payment with Geno, talking about Nisky. I didn't like it. Had to do something. So I appreciate you going along with this."

"You must have been very persuasive to take that opportunity away from Sid. What did your team think we were going to do?"

Flower narrowed his eyes at Holtby. Wasn't that obvious? "Well - they know I like you. So of course they figured I'd, uh, have my way with you."

"And are you?"

Flower was awfully glad he was no longer holding onto his scotch, or else he'd have dropped it to the floor. "What?! No! I mean - not that I don't - uh - " Fuck. "Never, I would never force, I mean you, it's..." Goddamn English.

Holtby didn't react to Fleury's fluster, just calmly tipped his drink back, finishing it, and set it gently onto the side table. He turned towards Flower, expression neutral, unreadable. "You know I'm married."

"Yes."

"And you know I would never cheat on my wife."

"Sure."

"You know I would never cheat on my wife," Holtby repeated, but paused, adding with emphasis, _"voluntarily."_

"Uh...?"

"I'm faithful to my wife," Braden explained slowly, "But The Payment is out of my control. It's something that work demands. If I am forced to do something through my job, then it's not really cheating. Do you understand?"

 _He wants it._ Fleury's eyes were wide, and he was replaying McCoy's words through his brain, over and over, trying to see any angle where he could be misreading the situation, could be fucking the whole thing up. "So if I tell you to - uh, to kiss me..."

"Well, I have to, eh?" Holtby nodded, and suddenly he closed the gap, crushing his mouth to Fleury's. Flower let his mouth sneak open, felt Braden's tongue take the invitation and groaned. It was real, it was happening, and he couldn't believe it.

They kissed for a long time, kissed until Marc-Andre was gasping for air, his face pressed against the wiry hairs on Holtby's cheek, sunk against the loveseat as Holtby had wriggled himself onto Flower's lap despite being the larger man. He smelled amazing. 

"You just want to kiss?" Braden murmured, his fist tangled in Fleury's shirt, and he realized that according to these rules, this rationalization that Braden set up for himself, he'd need to ask for everything tonight. Or command it.

"I want you naked," Fleury breathed against his mouth before losing himself in another kiss. When they broke, Braden glanced behind them, at the full floor to ceiling windows.

"Can I suggest the bedroom instead, if we're taking our clothes off?"

"Lead the way."

Holtby sprang up, practically dragging the other man off the couch, gently bumping into couches and tables along the way as they stumbled along, kissing. Braden slid his hands under the shoulders of Fleury's suit jacket (why was this still on?! Braden had taken his off ages ago), dropping it to the floor in a discarded pile. They stepped over it and continued towards the bedroom, all tongue and hot breathing and fumbling hands as buttons on dress shirts came undone.

The bedroom, Fleury noticed between kisses, had the biggest damn bed he had ever seen. In one fluid movement, Holtby yanked them around and shoved Flower, hard, where he landed on the plush bedspread with an 'oof'. Braden smirked as he popped the remaining buttons of his dress shirt, the ones Marc-Andre hadn't been able to undo - the second button, the fifth, the sixth - then slowly, deliberately, unbuttoned the wrist cuffs. Ever so fucking slowly. Marc-Andre growled. "Are you teasing me?"

"What makes you think that?" Holtby's tone was light, playful, as he removed his dress shirt and started fucking _folding_ it.

"Keep folding it," Fleury breathed, "and you won't have any more clothes to put back on because I will _rip them off you."_

"Pushy," Braden noted, but his playful tone had taken on a note of desire, and he finished the job quickly. Undershirt over his head, unbuckle his belt, pants down, briefs off...

And there he was, standing tall and naked, gloriously fucking naked, and half-hard. Well, Fleury would have to do something about that. "Come here."

Holtby complied, and as much as Fleury wanted to tease him, wanted to play it cool, there was no chill left at all, and he wasted no time wrapping his hand around Braden's cock and gently moving up and down. Holtby made a soft, satisfied noise, steadying himself on Flower's shoulder. "You're too dressed," he said after a few moments, voice a little rougher.

"You're right. But, first." Marc-Andre scooted down a bit, flicking his tongue out, licking a long, wet stripe on Holtby's shaft. Braden was just making a happy, low moan when Fleury reached the head, covering it with his mouth and sucking gently, the low moan turning into a growl.

"Oh, fuck."

Marc-Andre made a pleased huff around the head and moved his mouth downward until he was deep throating, then back up and repeating. His long fingers found Holtby's balls and he squeezed them gently in his fingers. Suddenly, hands were tugging, clutching in his hair, but Braden was being gentle, trying hard not to thrust down the other man's throat. Fleury rewarded him with long, deep passes, letting the head graze off the back of his throat over and over until Braden was wheezing out curse words in both English and some other language, or maybe it was no real language at all, just keening noises.

With some regret, Fleury sat back to tend to the rest of his clothes. "Jerk yourself off. I don't want to lose that work I just did." Shirt off, undershirt off. Flower tugged at his belt, a bit clumsily because he couldn't take his eyes off the other goaltender, who by now was following instructions, head tilted back slightly, long hair waving gently as he rocked a little on his heels as he jerked himself. He hated to interrupt Holtby's soft sighs and shaky breathing, which was incredibly fucking hot, but there was a pressing matter at hand. "Have you ever been fucked?"

Braden's head snapped back down, and Fleury could tell instantly that it was a 'no', and not only a 'no' but a 'please, no', the wide eyes and edge of panic written on his face. "It'sokayit'sokay," Marc-Andre rushed out, not wanting to kill the mood. "Just asking. You can fuck me." Which was fine, although that fantasy of holding Braden down, fucking him until he screamed...well, maybe another lifetime. Only when McCoy had visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping, hand starting to move again on his own cock did Fleury speak again, now in the process of untying his shoes. "Have you ever - I mean, with another guy...?"

"Ohhh. Um," Holtby's hand slowed as he thought. "Once or twice, when I was a teenager. Just, uh...hands and mouths. That's it."

"I knew with your fashion sense you couldn't be ALL straight," Flower smirked, and that did it, that broke the vague uneasiness in the room from his previous query. Holtby barked a laugh, waiting until the second that Fleury's last shoe dropped off, then tackling him to the bed. They laughed, rolling and wrestling for a moment, Braden getting the pin. Fleury was just grumbling about the weight difference when he was shut up with a kiss, and he suddenly became very aware that they were naked, their cocks grinding together. Again, they kissed until they couldn't anymore, Fleury's lungs crying out for air, panting hard as Holtby moved his mouth off and downward, pressing his lips gently down his chest. Fleury didn't ask for what he wanted next, not verbally, anyway; instead he nudged Braden's head, hard, down towards his groin. He figured that would be enough of a command for McCoy's rationalization.

Braden complied, copying Marc-Andre's opening move, tongue making a few passes up and down Fleury's cock. He felt Holtby take a deep breath, lips against the head, nervous, then opened his mouth and let Flower slide in, shallow, bobbing up and down. Between sucking he'd pop off to kiss and lick the shaft, and the blowjob was wet, and a little stilted - like Braden was still that teenage boy giving a secret BJ under the covers in his parents' house - but to Fleury it felt fucking amazing, because it was Holtby and fuck he was so turned on. He jerked in surprise as Braden went lower, giving a quick kiss to his balls and then arriving at his entrance, tongue wet and hot against it.

"Whoa!" Flower exclaimed, meeting Holtby's eyes when he jerked his head up, inquisitive. "Oh, no - it wasn't a bad thing - just, surprised...since you've never...with a man..."

"My wife has an asshole, too, Dolphin."

Flower dropped his shoulders back on the bed and laughed and laughed, and then his laughs turned to strangled moans as Holtby went right back to work. He drew his legs up so Braden could get a better angle, deeper, heard himself cursing in French as the tongue dipped inside. "McCoy - _baise-moi,_ is there lube? Condoms?"

"Drawer," Holtby muttered against his thigh, finger up and pointing to the end table next to Fleury's head. Flower yanked open the drawer and fumbled blindly as Braden continued, adding in a hand to gently stroke Marc-Andre's cock.

Fucking finally! His hands grabbed a tube and he practically threw it at Holtby, who caught it with ease - goalie reflexes - and popped it open, squeezing the clear liquid out and rolling it between his fingers to warm it. "Dolphin, it would be so fucking hot if you would play with yourself right now."

Just the request made Fleury bite back a moan. He did as asked, fingers wrapped delicately around his cock, barely stroking - he wanted this to last - as Braden pushed in a finger, slowly, gently. He bit his lip, seeming to be searching for something...

"Nom de Dieu," Fleury blurted out, reverting back to French as Holtby brushed his prostate, looking pleased that he'd found it. "Don't - ah - not too much there, or I'll come too fast. Fuck, McCoy, that is so good."

Holtby grinned triumphantly, like he was receiving _his_ Payment, a second finger added now, pumping them in and out gently. Fleury put the condom wrapper in his mouth, yanked, splitting the package open and handing the rubber over. "Prends-moi," he begged, knew that Holtby knew enough French to understand _take me,_ had a strong suspicion that pleading would turn Braden on, and was rewarded when McCoy's eyes flashed, heated, exhaling loudly.

"Fuck yes," he growled, sliding the condom on and shoving Flower's legs up and over, resting on his shoulders. "Are you ready?"

 _"Fuck me,"_ Fleury hissed as an answer, and Braden bared his teeth back, digging fingers hard into his hips to steady the other man and pushed inside.

Braden fucked exactly like Fleury had expected, dreamed about, jerking off to the thought in the comfort of his own home. He was loud, all growls and husky panting. Guttural swear words dropped easily from his lips - _fuck_ being his favorite - and he kept his hands firmly grasped around Flower's thighs, pulling towards him at each long, hard thrust with a loud smacking sound of groin to ass. Marc-Andre was obsessed with the way Braden kept throwing his head back to snarl at the ceiling, hair drifting everywhere, eyes squeezed tight in ecstasy, teeth clenched. Flower could barely touch his cock, throbbing, aching, or else he'd come, and he didn't want to, not yet.

Flower snarled out his own commands - _Plus fort! Plus vite!_ \- harder, faster, and Braden complied, leaning down for a crushing kiss, hips never slowing. He tilted down to bite Fleury's chin, hard, almost too hard for Flower's liking, but thrilling in the possessiveness of the act. Holtby dragged his teeth down Fleury's jaw before moved back up for another kiss, and his breath was hot against Marc-Andre's mouth. "Fuck, Marc - I'm going...going to - "

As loud as he was during sex, he was nearly silent in coming, panting harsh breaths and driving hard into Marc-Andre one last time. Fleury finally gave himself permission to touch his cock, needing only a few swift strokes before painting his stomach white, whimpering softly. A few sweat drops from Braden's forehead joined the mix before he gently pulled out, dropping next to Flower on the bed, gingerly peeling off the condom. "That was...holy shit, Dolphin."

"Pretty good punishment, eh," Fleury chuckled, stretching languidly on the bed.

"Well, next year when we beat you guys, maybe we'll do it again."

"I'm not going to be a Penguin next year." Marc-Andre glanced around for a towel to clean up, but noticed the realization coming over the other man's face. "You forgot."

"I guess I did."

"So you better have enjoyed this, because it's not going to happen again. I'll go to Vegas, or something, almost certainly out West, and this won't happen unless both our teams meet in the finals. I mean, _I'll_ be there, but you..." He was cut off by a pillow slapping down onto his face.

He laughed, swatting it away, was silent for a moment. "Not that I want your marriage to break up or anything, McCoy, but if you and your wife decide to ever, uh, take a break..."

"You will be the first person I call and I will fuck you until you can't stand."

"Promises, promises." Fleury sighed, watching Braden roll off the bed, pad over to the bathroom to pee. He began gathering clothes when he returned, to Flower's consternation.

"Sorry, Dolphin. I gotta get home. It's been a bit over 3 hours anyway." Holtby tossed him a towel, then, after a moment's hesitation, the key card as well. "I know you have to make arrangements to get back to Pittsburgh. You can stay here until your team can come collect you. Just make sure to get that key card back to me. I'll text you my address."

"Braden." McCoy paused from pulling on his pants, a bit surprised at being called by that name, and Fleury tugged him back over for a last kiss. It was long, but soft this time, their first gentle kiss of the evening, and Flower had that butterfly lump in his stomach, felt his cock twitch again even so soon after. He reluctantly let Holtby go, licking his lips, still tasting him on his mouth.

Nothing else was said while Holtby buckled his belt, tied his shoes, got his shirt on. He paused at the doorway, smiling, and Fleury grinned back. If Holtby was expecting some last minute expression of love, he was going to be disappointed. "Enjoy your summer. Good luck on your golf game."

 _"Fuck you,"_ Holtby hollered, stomping away, but Flower could hear the fondness behind the words. A minute later, he heard the front door open and close, and he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't started writing the Pens / Sens post-series Payment, but unless I get major writer's block, it's coming.


End file.
